Chapter 2 #4
I typed out my response, then hesitated. Should I use one exclamation mark or two? One, probably. That conveyed truthful enthusiasm rather than aggressive excitement.
Me: Yep!
Mac: How about dinner this week? Indian takeout?
My stomach clenched uncomfortably, knowing my baby sister felt like she needed to take care of me—to keep her spinster relation from wasting away or to keep me occupied so I didn’t go crazy and have another panic attack.
Then I scolded myself. That wasn’t fair. Mac had never once brought up my mental health or used it against me. I was internalizing all of this and apparently taking too long to respond because my phone vibrated with another text.
Mac: Garlic naan. Samosas. You know you want to.
A weird sense of déjà vu washed over me then. Samosas . . . why did that make me think of Jack Ellis? And why did I want one so badly? There was a hazy drunken memory there, but it was like smoke. I couldn’t hang on to it before it dissipated.
I shook off my confusion and typed out, Sounds good.
We exchanged a few more texts before I told Mac I needed to go. The sound of a motorcycle revving on screen had me fighting another memory. This time, a different bad-boy biker.
I still couldn’t believe I’d woken up in Jack’s apartment. Churning awkwardness came roaring back. The horrifying cringiness of it all. I groaned aloud into the empty bedroom.
He’d seen me puke. He’d held my hair back and given me a washcloth. I’d been vulnerable and honest and horribly weak in front of a boy from high school. Someone I’d always been curious about and intimidated by in equal measure.
Of course, Jack was no longer that bad-attitude teenager skipping class and getting questioned by the sheriff. He was a grown man with subway tile and wire-framed reading glasses. He made coffee and perused historical fiction.
Obviously, he was different. People tended to grow up after high school.
But Jack still made me uneasy and nervous.
That familiar, uncomfortable awareness had stolen through me just the same.
Of knowing how attractive and enigmatic he was.
This loner with piercing hazel eyes and a huge chip on his shoulder.
And how uncool and straightlaced I was by comparison.
I couldn’t help but wonder, why had he helped me? Why had he taken me home and taken care of me? Listened to me ramble and given me shelter during the very apparent natural disaster that was my life.
Jack might be more grown up and responsible now, but some things were reminiscent of the past. He still had that slightly too-long hair, the strands artfully disheveled and curling around his ears.
And he was still aloof and slightly disconnected from all things Kirby Falls.
Despite living and working in our hometown, he didn’t participate.
Aside from rec league softball, he wasn’t a joiner.
Maybe that was a leftover from his rebellious adolescence.
As a fifteen-year-old Goody Two-shoes, I’d been kind of in awe of the troublemaking bad boy with a complete indifference toward authority.
Jack had put me on edge back then. I’d wrung my hands and wondered what he might do next.
It had been like watching a tightrope walker with my heart in my throat, certain the next step would have them careening toward disaster.
Teenage Bonnie had been a worrier too.
Now, though, my therapist called it generalized anxiety disorder. Apparently, it wasn’t normal to worry so much, to spend your life planning for calamity—real or imagined.
My anxiety was basically doomscrolling my entire existence.
Sometimes, at night, I couldn’t sleep from overthinking.
My brain didn’t have an off switch, and I couldn’t seem to locate the fuse box that would bring me peace.
It was like replaying every mistake you’d ever made and even the ones you hadn’t.
It was the potential for it, what might have been, or what I could have said.
Every interaction had countless possibilities, and since I was a thorough individual, I liked to imagine each and every one.
When your brain was working against you, there was no way to defend yourself. You were wrong, ill-prepared, underwhelming, and the villain in every scenario—and there were many.
My therapist, Nina, gave me exercises to combat my bombarding thoughts. And since my people-pleasing wasn’t limited in any capacity, I tried to do everything my therapist told me. You know, so I could win therapy.
But the crappy thing about seeing a therapist was this: Sometimes I just wanted Nina to tell me what to do, explicitly and clearly. Not rationally help me sort through options while also giving no opinions of her own.
I tried to consider what Nina might tell me to do about this situation with Jack, but couldn’t come up with anything.
Presently, I was warring with myself, fighting the urge to make and deliver some blueberry muffins as a thank-you gift, and also considering ducking down behind my steering wheel for the rest of my life should he pass by me on his bike.
My eyes strayed toward the screen, and the MC members gathered around talking in their riding leathers.
Mostly, I just wondered how long it would take to stop thinking about the way I’d embarrassed myself in front of my very own motorcycle-riding bad boy.